26 Letters
by pebblysand
Summary: "Everyone, without exception, is searching for happiness." - Blaise Pascal. A collection of one-shots telling the story of our favorite couple. Huddy.
1. Arrival

_Disclaimer: _Damn it I really wish these characters were mine and I was making money out of this. But I'm not. Sadly. There might also be references to songs or other TV shows disseminated along the way. They all belong to whoever owns them. If you guys find one hidden in the text, tell me and you might get a reward ;).

_Warnings: _The fic is rated T mainly for language. I will _not _write smut in this fic _but_ there will be some highly T-rated scenes so if you don't like that, I suggest you stop reading here ;).

_A/N:_ Hi guys, I hope you'll enjoy this little collection of Huddy oneshots. I've recently become addicted to the show and can't seem to get enough of them. There will be 26 shots, all of them will be themed with a letter in the alphabet and the second person POV swtiches from Cuddy to House in each chapter. I promise to try and make the updates as regular as I can.

Also, the fist chapters are un-betaed so I appologize for the mistakes ;). Please review, know that your words are like delicious candies for any writer out there.

* * *

**Arrival.**

_"Damn it Cuddy! Don't you want to make Rachel proud by doing what's right?"_

_"House don't go there, don't use her to - "_

_"Oh, so what? You can show off in your little low-cut tops and tight skirts to get extra money for the hospital but I can't even use your daughter to convince you of doing what I -"_

You catch a glimpse of him waiting at the arrivals gate as soon as your feet hit the ground, his chin rested awkwardly against his wooden cane as his deep blue eyes keep staring into the emptiness. You think about going the other way but his glare freezes you first, forcing you to remain motionless until he limps towards you and ends up with his torso just inches away from your breasts. You're at a loss of words since that last argument you had before you headed for the airport a week ago and you know he hasn't even tried to call you once since. You just had to cry your heart out in an expensive hotel room, your bath filled with pink bubbles as you listened to Mariah Carey on your BlackBerry thinking it had all come to an end when you heard the sound of your hand slapping his stubbled cheek.

"I thought about calling the 'help for battered men' number, you know? But I just couldn't bring myself to file the complaint." He tells you bluntly and lets the one dream you've had about him apologizing crash on the white linoleum floor next to the old remains of some spilled Starbucks coffee. "I couldn't help it. I just love the way you lie."

Right, you sigh, Eminem reference. He's always been like that, walking out on you during the biggest fights with a juicy comeback and a shrug of his broad shoulders.

"I'm sorry," he mutters under his breath after a moment and you stare at him inquisitively, scrutinizing his gaze for an answer you'll probably never get. Is he lying to your face? Is he pretending this never happened? You can't trust anything he says but maybe if you try, one day you'll be able to believe in what his actions tell you. Tonight he's here, standing before you, and even though there's a split second when you think you should just move on and forget all about him, you realize that this - this very moment you share here and now - It's all that matters. So your tears end up melting in his mouth once again right before any other thoughts dare to reach your brain. Somehow, you manage to give him an umpteenth second chance.

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	2. Bog

**Bog.**

You've always wondered why you kept hanging out near that damn pond with the band. Gosh, you gasp, there's a reason why the cops never caught you smoking here: the annoying insects, the dirty clothes, the heavy mud, the sickening feeling and the stinky smell.

"You know what man? I'm done!" That's Andrew, the rebellious guitarist who insisted on coming with you. You never quite bothered figuring him out, thinking he wasn't such an interesting puzzle to solve but now, you understand why it could have been useful. You eye him suspiciously as he gets out of the cold water and sits on the ground, his hands held high in surrender. "There is just no way I'm doing all this for a girl and her fucking hair clip!" You stand still for a couple of seconds before you burry your hands in the dirt once again, scanning the bog for a needle in a haystack.

"Please just give up man, you lost it, never gonna find it. It's rained all night, it's cold and you have to meet with the Dean in an hour! How the hell do you think I'm going to explain that?"

Actually, the Dean has already called you, but that's irrelevant to your point. Andrew might be trying to be nice; he might also just be ambitious. Perhaps he wants you to make him the lead singer of the band once you're gone. Thing is, you don't give a damn. "I never asked you anything. Not my fault if you can't stop yourself from helping people."

An eternity and fifteen minutes later, you see him close his eyes as realization (or sobriety) hits him. "Greg, how did her hair clip end up in your pocket in the first place?"

Well, that would require a piece of information you're not willing to share with Andrew at the moment, involving details on you and Lisa's _personal _life. She's stunning, beautiful, smart and reliable. And you've just spent half an hour going through some dirty thick brown mud to find her hair clip because you already know that's the only thing you'll get to keep from her for a very, very long time.


	3. Cast

Warnings : Little bit of sexy scenes here, beware.

**Cast.**

"You sure you wanna do this?"

"What? Getting cold feet?"

He steps out of his rumpled jeans and his shirt soon follows them on the floor, proving you how wrong you were about everything. He's always right, even in bed, and you like it. "Nah, just checking. You know I was serious about sending the tape to the whole hospital, right?"

And he was the one who didn't want to go public four weeks ago. You smile and tighten your grip around his shoulders; he's already so high on lust that the fall is going to hurt. "Yeah but you won't," you quickly roll over and settle above him. He seems pleasantly surprised for a few seconds before you bother explaining it all.

"You know," you utter and see him roll his eyes at the camera behind you, "It won't look so good for you if I'm on top".

You watch him trying to find some kind of acceptable wise-ass comeback but you silence him with a kiss that you know will take his breath away. "You talk way too much, Dr. House"

"Well those pornos we were talking about are not exactly what you could call silent but if you want I can – Oh!" He gasps loudly as your lips begin their journey south, slow and painful. You feel him tense under your body and can hear his heart pounding in his chest. You love him even more like that; when his breathing is so labored he can't even seem to catch his own breath, appearing somewhat vulnerable to you and only you. The intimacy is something you worship every day; it's the reason why you know that what you have is more than just sex. He shows you he loves you in his own way, with hickeys on your neck and his hands on your hips. He bursts in your office barking about how funny you still make him feel, no matter the number of times he's seen you naked in the past month.

The next time you raise your eyes, you notice his mouth is wide open, agape. He's waiting, his fists tight and strong in your hair. If he's talking too much, maybe you're also thinking too much. A smile forms on your lips as you let your tongue brush against the thin line of his waist band, teasing. He's obviously struggling "I wanted our movie to look authentitish -"

You catch the flash in his eyes, like fireworks on the fourth of July. There's always that moment, that one crack when he finally takes a deep breath and surrenders. As you nip, suck and kiss, you also make him stutter. And you never lose your purpose. "'Authentiti' what?"

"Oh stop it!" He shouts and what makes him angry seems to make you smile. His eyes are begging. "Keep on doing that and I might consider changing the movie's cast."

The cast? You wonder if that includes him too. Because judging by the way his head is thrown backwards on the mattress, eyes closed and a smug grin plastered all over his face, he's not going to survive for so long. You eye him intently and finally decide to show him what other great things you can do with your mouth. You can't leave him in that much misery.


	4. Denial

A/N : I know, I know it's been more than a week but I hope you'll forgive me. You get two small shots this time, both taking place during or after Help Me.

I'm still beta-less so any mistakes or mine. Thank you all guys for the review, support and favorites and story alerts, really, I feel like I don't deserve them ;).

Denial.

Denial. Denial associates with Lisa Cuddy, lies and "I don't love yous" shouted at each other more times than you can remember.

Anger. It took you a year to stop pretending you didn't care and when you finally got there, you didn't really like the result. Being in denial at least wasn't hurting anyone else and Hannah wasn't the collateral victim of your brokenness. You hate Cuddy for not understanding your words, you despise her for thinking the whole world revolves around her. You can't amputate because there's no way you can have been wrong ten years ago.

Bargaining. You even tried to ask her for a little more time, just a little more so you could figure out how to get Hannah out in one piece. But she said no again and again and again. She doesn't only ignore your feelings; she also discards your medical judgment. Next thing you know, tomorrow, she'll probably fire you.

Depression. And she'll be right because you don't have anything left, anything left to fight for. Wilson's moving on, she's moving on and there's nothing you can do to prevent that.

Acceptance. So you take the one decision that might change your life. She won't keep her leg and you will lose your pride but there's just no way she's walking out of here alive. And waiting is just another name for that famous third option you can't stand.

So you go down the tiny tunnel one last time, bits and pieces of dirty concrete scraping your knees and elbows in the process. You know the way by heart and your leg throbs in pain every time you go just an inch further but if there's a slight chance that you can still save Cuddy performing the amputation, you'll take it.


	5. Engagement

Engagement

"Don't leave me Lisa, I'm begging you. I swear I'll make you a superstar. I'll give you everything you deserve, happiness and stability and power and diamond rings. I'll be there for you, I'll offer you all the things he doesn't have, and I understand you may still need that. I'll forget about everything, all your mistakes and your faults, your silent confessions and his admission on my couch.

We could be happy, Lisa. Please just change your mind or at least let our discussion wait until the sunrise. Please don't make me go. I'll sleep on the ground if you want me to, cook your pancakes tomorrow and drive you to work at five. You know _I_ don't make promises I can't keep. I've never lied, never cheated, never stole any single thing from you but I could start if you wanted me to. I'll be whoever you need me to be. I'll be a bad boy, I'll stop shaving, I'll drive you crazy and dig a hole in my leg if you promise to stay. God please Lisa don't do that to me, don't leave me.

Let me at least touch you just one last time. Let me guilt you into staying or just show you again why you've picked up the wrong guy. Are you going to be able to take him to your sister's? Will you dare presenting him to your Mom? I really thought you had chosen me over him. I really believed that you'd be the one I'd be facing while saying 'I do'. He doesn't deserve you Lisa, please let me see that spark form in your eyes all over again.

Oh God please turn around, please don't go to him, and don't turn your back on me. Don't give me that look again; don't throw my ring up in the air! I'm kneeling in front of you again Lisa Cuddy, don't you dare humiliating me like that! Please just tell me your heart still belongs to me."

You see the pain and the despair in his eyes but the words will never make it to your mouth. You lied the first time you told him that, your heart always belonged to someone else.


	6. Family

_A/N:_ Oh my God guys, I'm soooo sorry I haven't updated in a month. Life just got really crazy. First there were the holidays and I flew over to see my family in LA and didn't get time to write. Then, back in France, college kind of got out of control… Anyway, here is the latest chapter. Honestly, I used to be happy with it when I wrote it but now I wouldn't say so anymore. I don't know, it just feels like something is off. However, I still hope you like it, and if you don't, well I hope you don't dislike it to the point where you stop reading. Tell me what you think nonetheless, criticism is always very welcome. (Thanks to everyone who's reviewed by the way. Like I said, I didn't have enough time to write back but I promise I will ;))

**Family**

You really fucked it up this time, big time, your fist almost hitting the table just inches away from Rachel. You can still hear Cuddy lecturing her about not being rude to people. You wonder how rude she thought that was. It's not like it's the kid's fault anyway; you can't really blame her for anything that happened. It was a legitimate and logical question. She saw something that didn't fit and she asked you about it. That's just it.

"_What is this?" She wondered, her eyes wide, focused on the old circular mark on your arm. _

_Her voice was so sweet, so innocent, so pure; it almost touched you. She seemed as curious as you used to be, not noticing (or deciding she didn't mind) the obvious look of discomfort building on her mother's face. "It's a scar," you simply told her. _

"_Like when you fall and you get hurt?" _

"_Yes."_

"_Like your leg?"_

"_No." _

"_Then what happened?"_

"_Not your business."_

"_Please tell me," she begged, turning to face her mother "Mommy you know?"_

_Cuddy licked her lips and bit the inside of her mouth; thinking back, she couldn't even look at you. Suddenly, it was like your father was there again, staring at you with that profound look of disgust on his face. "Rachel I think it's time to go to bed now." She warned, her voice shaking, unsure, waiting for you to tell her it was alright, because well, Rachel was just a kid right? She couldn't possibly know not to ask about –_

"_What happened?"_

* * *

"She's asleep." Cuddy mutters as she walks back into the living room, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. "House," she mutters, "you alright? You're still clenching your fists."

You look down, take a deep breath but forget to calm down and exhale. Even now, it feels like you're always searching for something, a flaw in her mask that would allow you to get angry and bang the front door on your way out. "So what? You're just going to pretend you're not curious? I'm really disappointed Cuddy. The one opportunity you have of humiliating me you –"

"I'm not trying to humiliate you."

"Yeah sure. Hell it's just like for the Vicodin and everything else, gosh you're just _that_ tolerant, aren't you?"

Amazingly, she doesn't yell back. Instead, she pauses and walks around the sofa.

"I'm not pissed," she tells you.

Your finger points your arm; the scar is circular but barely even visible, just a little bit of harmless burnt skin. "So you do know where that came from, right?"

"Yeah. When your Dad died, I got curious and went to Wilson."

You clench your teeth tight as you try to stop the anger from consummating you. She tiptoes to the opposite end of the couch, burying her face in her hands. "It's not his fault House. He got drunk and I took advantage of it."

Right, you think, still. It's funny how it sounds like she's confessing to something else. You laugh it off loudly and fake the shock, sarcasm reflecting in your tone "Oh – My – God, I can't believe it! So you slept with Wilson too! I just knew you also hired him because of a one-night-stand! I knew it!"

But that's certainly not enough to wash off the awkwardness that transpires through her living room, her walls and her carpeted floor.

"I'm sorry House but please don't deflect, not now, okay? Just -"

"Then damn it Cuddy stop feeling so damn guilty and apologizing for everything. If this is anyone's fault it's mine. I messed up; my father caught me, end of story."

And there it goes. You can see the hurt in her face, the way the words cut right through her like a knife. You can't really know where that comes from though, anger or pity.

"So you still think what he did was your fault?" You fall silent and watch your feet as if they're going to just walk out without your consent. "Is that why you're so uncomfortable around Rachel? Are you scared of -?"

She can't even seem to finish voicing her thought out loud; the train left rolling on its own waiting for you to catch up and say something appropriate. Instead you just smile from the corners of your mouth because of course, who could? Who could find the last piece of the puzzle? You decide to stick to what you know. Habits. Science. Certitudes. Statistics. "Burning her with a cigarette? Me? No. But there's a pattern you can't ignore, don't you think? What is it? 40? 30% of neglected children 'continuing the horrible cycle of abuse'?" You quote the frequent reports regularly published on the media. 'If you suspect a child is abused please call …' You know she probably knows all the numbers by heart anyway, ever since she started reading all those books about child psychology back at the time when she was searching for a sperm donor.

"You're not usually one to care about the numbers, House."

"Well," you say, "I wouldn't want that near my kid either."

She looks puzzled for a second. "I _do_ trust you"

"Well then you're crazy and irrational Cuddy. I mean really, why would any of us care about that since we're living in such a bliss? It's not like I'm a jackass or anything." Your voice is dry and you try to hide the hurt behind it. "You know what? It's late, it looks like we won't be having sex tonight after all so I'll just … get going."

The anger boiling in your veins makes you rise too quickly and your leg stops following your brain. Cuddy catches you before you fall back on the sofa and you realize how humiliating this is. You're not even able to run away whenever you feel like it. She sits on your right and lays a hand on your leg, stroking gently through your thick jeans. You shift your thigh slightly, getting out of her reach.

Your gaze travels around the room from the muted TV to the dining table all the way to the kitchen and an eternity goes by before you dare thinking of speaking again. It feels like being trapped, her eyes begging you to open up before suddenly, she kisses you. Hard and passionate on your lips, hands tangled in your hair and travelling all over your body. She stops to breathe and you watch her, her hungry silver stare and the thin layer of water forming on her eyes. You kiss her lips again. "I'm not going to talk to you, you know that right?"

"Yeah"

"Then why?" Did you kiss me? Did you make a scene? Did you tried to-

"I didn't want you to go. I still don't want you to go." Your jaw drops and she takes advantage of it, sliding her tongue inside your mouth. "You don't want to talk about that now, you may never do. It's not like when I ask you for an apology and I know you'll come around sometime" she mutters as her kisses go down your throat. "I'm not strong enough to risk losing you."

* * *

"I snuck out of the base once when he was stationed in Egypt and met up with a kid I knew who was selling cigarettes."

It's freezing outside Cuddy's porch tonight and you suddenly realize you haven't spoken to each other in more than a week (except from the few moans you exchanged in the janitor's closet of course). It's like you're back to square one, nothing but the freaking sex. She comes out of her car slowly, her petite frame shivering in the cold while you shake the snow off your shoes. You let out a brief breath and smirk at the stupidity of it all. It's so childish, so incredibly vain to open-up and share that kind of story with her. She probably doesn't even want to hear it anyway. And she won't understand. She won't get it right. "I was just being a twelve year old moron, you know? And well, I guess you can imagine what happened next, right?"

She sighs, probably wondering how to put it. You watch her get closer, walking next to you and up the stairs. She pulls her keys out of her purse. "He caught you?"

"Yeah. Asked me to toss it on the floor and I puffed into his face so he put it out on my arm. Maybe it was just the way you were supposed to do it in the army, I don't know." You swallow hard and notice how beautiful the snow looks as it falls on her coat. "I mean I _was _a tough kid so..." You start and only then she lets a quiet chuckle escape her pink lips. The lock clicks open and she steps in, turns around and places her hands on each side of the doorframe.

"Don't worry, I don't want to come in," you say, "I just wanted you to know that… I know it's going to be tough but" _take a deep breath House_, "I think we both know this stopped being just about the sex the day I told you I loved you."

What's amazing about Lisa Cuddy is that she never ceases to surprise you. She's this persistent Chinese puzzle piece that just can't fit anywhere. She smiles and tells you "I don't believe you" at the same time. She bursts out laughing when you wonder what the hell is going on.

Loud, offensive, aggressive, like the mean guys in Rachel's fairytales. She forces you to look at her eyes for a moment before she captures your lips between hers. Again, you stop breathing. Because you've had sex with so many hookers before that kissing actually became almost as intimate and breathtaking as sex for you. "House," she closes the door behind you "You _do _want to come in".

_Later, when her warm body will be curled up against yours under the covers of her bed and neither of you will have spoken a word after you left the living room (moans and labored breaths sometimes also seem to be enough for the both of you to survive), she will tell you she loves you and doesn't think you're like him. Again, she'll tell you she trusts you. And most importantly she'll tell you she's not __her__. She is not one to put her head in the sand and ignore whatever is going on. She's a fighter and she will always fight for you if she has to. Not only to protect Rachel but also because she won't ever let you self-destroy without doing anything._


	7. Galimatias

I promised a new chapter soon, didn't I? Well here it is, hope you like it. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. This OS is kinda bittersweet but next one will definitely be lighter. The writing is a little messy on purpose as I tried to stick with the confusion the title suggests.

_Galimatias : n. Nonsense; gibberish; confused and unmeaning talk; confused mixture.  
-_

_

* * *

_

**Galimatias**

Walking around the hospital is like tracing the borders of your territory. You enjoy the ownership, the control. That is, of course, until you pass by his conference room one morning and find an empty and chaotic office before you. At that point, you still can't sort out your feelings. Confusion, fear, helplessness? No idea.

All you can see is the deep vermilion blood spread all over the grey carpet.

_He said he wanted Ketamine._

You have a quick call to make. These are your grounds, your hospital, your incompetent security staff. Everything here belongs to you. House is paid with your money. And yet the decision _you_ have to make is jeopardizing _his_ life. Again.

_You bang your head against the wall because of him._

Logic leaves you somewhere between the ER and the observation room. You feel bad, frustrated, everything gets so mixed up in your head that you can't comprehend, analyze, dissect; you can't pause. Usually, he says black and you say white and he's the one telling you in which direction you should be heading.

_Second bullet is out. Stitching._

"Hey, glad to see you" he says groggily when he finally wakes up, "last time, Cameron was there. You're hotter."

You raise your eyebrows. Cameron? You're confused; you haven't seen her around lately. At least he knows who _you_ are; the Ketamine doesn't seem to have screwed him up as much as you predicted. You check his pupils, his heartbeat and let your hand rest on his arm.

"How long have I been out?" He tries to sit up but you force him down on your hospital bed.

"Almost three days. Stop talking, you should rest."

And you should maybe finally head home for a shower. Something tells you that after staying up for seventy-two hours straight, you might also need some sleep.

_You heal, you forget, you make amends. _

Two days later, he looks even better.

"You did it, didn't you?"

"What?"

"The Ketamine. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't want to risk a placebo effect. How's your leg?" You try not to be overly enthusiastic but if he managed to get all the way down here to your office, there might be hope that everything did work out fine.

"Pain free." He says. And watches you smile.

_He loves your smile._


	8. Hickey

**A/N:** Hey guys! For some reason, I've managed to update this week, which is both a really good thing for you (well I hope so) and a really bad thing for me. In the middle of revising for mid-terms (yes, French mid-terms are in January, so what? It's not like we're expected to do everything like everybody else, is it?), this means that I am not actually studying. I wish I just didn't have to choose between Civil Law and Huddy stories.

Anyways, thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. Thanks to those who are going to review now, I hope you like this new chapter. ;)

And lastly, just so you know: I had a lot of trouble in this chapter deciding whether eyebrows 'raise' or 'rise'. This was a problem that neither Google nor the French/English could fix. That's why I really am in a DESPERATE need of beta. Really, anyone, please message me, email me, send me a letter, a pigeon even, I'm begging you.

That's it now, enjoooy!

**Hickey.**

"Cuddy…"

A teasing whisper. Quiet, standing right behind her, your hot breath invading her personal space. She catches your reflection in the bathroom mirror and your voice is low, rough; it makes her vulnerable. You know it. And use it. She can feel your hands slowly making their way up her ribcage, from her hips to her sides, up until you start pulling her shirt out of her high-wasted skirt. It's so easy it should be illegal. A shame Tritter missed that.

Instead of your obnoxious stalker, she's the one who grabs your hand as she turns around, preventing you from going too far.

_Handcuffs could work too, couldn't they? _

"House, I'm already late. I really have to -" you steal a kiss from her pulpy red lips each time she tries to say one more word. You _do_ like the sound of her voice… But when she cries out your name, it's even better. "Go - to - work."

She pushes you away gently with her manicured fingernails and walks back to her room, lifting her purse up on her bed, double-checking just in case she's forgotten something (actually it's more like the fifth time she looks inside that thing but your mouth stays shut. You're in the mood for sweet morning sex, not angry banter).

"You're supposed to be at work at 9 so I guess you'll actually check in the clinic at about 11…" She looks at you and you nod, only half-listening.

"You look like a hooker," you say, and of course, nothing happens. She grabs an elastic band from her nightstand drawer and fastens her hair up, not noticing that now, you usually only go so far as 'dressed like a hooker'.

She just glares at you nonetheless, because you're always up to something. "And that is a problem to you because?"

Good point there. You smile that annoying arrogant self-assured grin that usually drives her crazy but she's already walking down the corridor and you curse under your breath because she can't admire it. "Cuddy" you just call her and she spontaneously turns around. You limp in her direction, heading towards the front door. You grab her scarf from the coat rack and politely hand it to her (more like_ 'innocently' _actually; you doubt there's anything polite about this). "You might want to wear that"

Her eyebrows raise because the material just doesn't fit her outfit at all but she probably decides it's sweet, how much you worry over her well-being. "It's not that cold" she reassures you with a pat on your shoulder and takes a step further.

"Seriously" you say, urging your body to stand between her and the door "Or you should at least put your hair down".

Strangely enough, she doesn't really seem to like the self-satisfied look on your face anymore. It was sweet two minutes ago, now it's scary. Memories pass before her eyes as soon as her heart starts pounding in her chest. You see everything. She follows your gaze and finally sees it, below her ear, on the right, next to her throbbing carotid. You try to open your mouth and find a clever thing to say but suddenly, telling her that you own her now and have the right to mark your territory along the way does not seem appropriate anymore. She eyes you intently as you shifts slightly, wondering how pissed she exactly is.

"You –" Cuddy gasps and pokes her long finger at your chest.

"The hickey, I know, my bad. And before you ask, I'm not sorry. Honestly I thought it'd have vanished by today, that's why I didn't tell you"

There, right _there_. She bits down her lower lip and now you know she's pissed. Really pissed. You can see it in the way her eyebrows frown, the way her face tenses and the way she glares daggers at your boyish (or 'Wilson-ish' maybe - if you're at such a desperate loss of appropriate adjectives) smile.

"Makes you hotter." You finally declare as a matter of fact. "And you should feel lucky I told you."

Nothing seems to make it better. Her mouth is wide open and clearly not from arousal. Sucking her flesh in the heat of the moment was so much funnier than dealing with the consequences. It's weird how two minutes ago you still thought you could get laid.

"You're telling me I had this on my neck _all_ week-end?"

Disbelief. Your mouth doesn't open and hers doesn't close.

"When I went to the park with _Rachel_? When I went _shopping_?"

A beat.

An unbelievably long and pensive beat. Then, she sighs.

"No wonder why my Mom thinks I'm a slut."

Okay now, that's strange. She doesn't sound pleased but she doesn't sound disappointed either. You wait for her to forgive you, to see the love behind her anger. After all, it's cute isn't it? She quickly grabs the scarf from your hands, pulls it over her neck without adding a word. You try closing the gap between the both of you but she turns around. Apparently, asking for a kiss is just a little too much for her to handle right now.

You try to ignore the little voice inside your head telling you revenge will come.

She throws one last glance at her neck and suddenly a mischievous smile forms on her lips. Pushing you slightly until your back hits the hallway wall, she brushes her firm body against yours, gently dropping a kiss on the corner of your mouth.

_Well, that's a radical change in behavior but who are_ you_ to complain? Really? _

Her right hand grazes your cheek, lightly scratched by your stubble; it feels like it's all starting over again. Desire burns inside you, heartbeat quickly speeding up. You're glad that she finally sees the hickey for what it is, a cute little love letter, a reminder of what's behind your relationship and…

Okay, you have to admit doing it was just… Passionately hot. Watching her walk around with that thing on her neck for forty-eight gave you chills running up you spine all the time. And don't even talk about the thrill you got out of watching her applying her make up on and be completely oblivious. Love makes people blind, doesn't it?

You stop thinking when her sweet pink lips slowly descend over your neck (or rather your heart suddenly stops sending blood towards your brain and prefers a further down destination instead – not that you mind); her hands caressing both your biceps on the way and moving towards your chest, fingers running under the thin fabric of your shirt. You swallow hard, expecting your pajama pants to start feeling incredibly tight in a second or two. Her nails play with your waistline and you realize there's never been any reason for you to believe you were in control. Acting on impulse, your lips find shelter in the crook of her neck and kiss every bit of skin they can find there.

You think it's really, really (_really_) unfortunate when she pushes you away again, even if it's with a smile. "House," she mutters grabbing the door handle with one hand and using the other to wrap the scarf around her neck. "See you at _nine_."

You close your eyes. The door opens and closes. Revenge sucks. Cold shower calls.

Crap. Now you're sorry.


	9. Immaculate Conception

_A/N:_ Hey guys! I'm sorry it took so long, midterms just suck. I hope you like this chapter and would love to thank my wonderful new beta, Pandorama, who kindly offered her help on this piece. However, I self-edit a lot so any mistakes you see here are mine, I apologize for those.

Enjoy

* * *

**Immaculate Conception**

Around midnight Wilson finally leaves you alone at the poker table, surrounded by three other men with expensive ties knotted around their collars and a mixed smell of cologne assaulting your nostrils. Just like in all the hotels you've ever been to during a medical convention, the reception room is decorated with ancient looking furniture and bright red curtains hanging over the windows, the environment so cliché that even the MGM Grand in Las Vegas would look refreshing. You decide to leave the game (much to Mike's dismay – or maybe it was Matt, you can't remember) and head for the bar, forgetting for a second that you can't drink. Of course you sit next to _him_ because really, after giving the worst speech of your career this afternoon and spending your evening being hit on by obnoxious Jewish doctors you know your mother would love, talking with House for the first time in two weeks probably won't be that much of a problem.

You order a Virgin Mary and he, on the other hand, asks for something you really want to drink.

"You came," you say, stating the obvious and sitting on the stool next to him. House smells like junk food and Whisky and thank God he doesn't wear cologne.

"Open bar, couldn't resist. I wanted to keep tabs on Wilson but I got carried away by the drunk guy over there. See? The one struggling with his crutches?"

You smile slightly. House himself sounds a little drunk but you don't say a word about it. It's not that much and yet you wonder how long he's been here, how many drinks he's had and how safe this situation is. He must have seen you staring at the brown liquid in his glass because suddenly he looks at you and tells you not to worry; apparently Wilson's credit card is paying.

"I told him to hide it," you object, and forget not to look surprised for a second.

He seems to sympathize, just like Cameron. "Oh Cuddles," he tells you "I hope someday someone will see past your incompetence and discover the _real_ you, I _really_ do."

A smile forms on your lips but you stay silent, enjoying the opportunity to glance around the room as an outsider. House looks at you, his blue stare lingering on your body; you can feel him guessing, imagining, undressing you. When you turn around, you like that he doesn't hide himself or pretend he was concentrating on something else, he just keeps doing it, seeing the way your tight Indian red dress rides up your thighs when you cross your legs, the way you hold your breath and bite your lip when your heart starts beating a little faster under his invasive gaze; he stops on your chest for a moment and smiles, slightly straightening his back so he can take a better look and finally ends his journey on your eyes, holding your gaze for as long as he can until biology forces him to blink. "But you do look good Cuddy," he tells you as a conclusion of his inspection and you're not quite sure how to take it. A lot of people said that tonight but somehow he's the only one you really believe.

Eventually, your orders arrive: a simple refill of whatever he's been drinking for the past hour for him and a bright red pseudo-cocktail for you. Before you can stop him he takes your glass in his right hand and swallows a bit of tomato juice and of course spits it right back, ruining your seven-dollars beverage. Surprisingly though, you're not even the one to complain. "What the _hell_ is that?" he asks and washes his mouth with a swig of Whiskey.

"Virgin Mary. Like a Bloody Mary without the Vodka"

"No alcohol, huh?"

"The procedure is scheduled as soon as I get back, I'm trying not to spoil my chances"

"And then nine long months right?"

You smile.

"Well," he tells you and downs the rest of his Jack Daniel's, "don't worry, I'll drink for you." And it sounds as if he thinks you need to cope, when actually you might finally get what you've always dreamed of. You wonder if you will ever be able to just understand each other instead of connecting through hurtful heartbeats every once in a while.

A few seconds pass by during which you both engage in a contest trying to fake contentment as best as you can and for now; you think you're winning. If your brain had been functioning well enough tonight, you might have taken this as a signal telling you it was time to go. Instead, you decide to stay here and push back, and forget that's never a good idea with House; or whoever else doesn't have anything to lose in the battle.

You try to say something smart but he cuts you halfway anyway, "do you even know him?"

"He's got great genes."

He smiles. "And does he like Mozart?"

"He likes the Beatles."

The one time you tell the truth, a cold rush of wind separates you.

"Of course," he says, "He's probably also losing his hair,"

"Yeah, because you_ clearly_ aren't."

_You've learned sarcasm that is the lowest kind of wit but it's always better than nothing, isn't it? _

As you look up, you realize how strange it is that he enjoys fighting as much as you do, something you didn't even know about yourself before you met him. With the constant bluffing, it feels like you've left one poker table for another. Everything he does is a game, pushing the chess pieces with his long fingers until the queen finally falls. In college you hated him for months because he thought he was so much better than anyone else, including you, and because he was right. You grew up and learned how to hold your tongue and became a real chameleon, charming and seducing your way to get wherever you wanted. _How come he doesn't understand it?_ You wondered during your endocrinology classes. _Why does he always spoil his chances by telling people the blatant truth?_ You tried to understand. It was not altruism and yet it had never done him any good. Was he just getting in trouble for the sake of it? You never could figure it all out because that's when he left you. And somehow, he contributed to your training; he helped you wash the guilt off your face. In high school you had always felt bad for being able to cheat and pretend but House trained you to become what he hated the most, a brilliantly charming administrator. A person who keeps the mask on as long as he does.

But because of that, you could never hide the guilt from _him_.

"Look House, I know what you think about this but it's my decision," and you shouldn't have to justify yourself, really, and he doesn't have the right to look at you the way he does.

"It shouldn't be." He cuts you. "Having a child is not something you're supposed to do on your own. You want true unconditional love? It should come out of something else than sterilized medical devices,"

Your eyes snap up. "It should come out of sex you mean?"

"Some kind of human connection, yes."

Pushing your Virgin Mary aside, you cross your arms over the counter and sigh. This is exactly the kind of conversation you wanted to avoid tonight; you can already hear your mother saying you asked for it your whole life, with all your despicable friends and unhealthy work habits. "You're drunk, House."

"Why? Because I'm being romantic?"

"Because you're being naïve," you breathe, "And that's not like you."

"Right, you should ask Stacy sometime, I can even buy flowers."

You hold onto his gaze or to the memories you see behind it but it doesn't feel like your place to tell. Your tongue slips at the end of your sentence and you're not sure if it really is unconscious or just another personal screw up of yours. "Yeah well, a kid, romance, the white picket fence, I can't have it all, Greg."

"You're beautiful _Lisa_," he mocks – or insists, you're not sure, "You can get anything and anyone you want. No need to pick a stranger you don't know."

You watch him swallow his new drink, still unable to sip yours. The moment is awkward for some reason but you rationalize: maybe you've imagined everything. "Hopefully," you say, "I'll get a child."

"If that's really what you're after."

You stop tapping your fingers against your glass and prevent yourself from making a fist. _You're being so unfair, House, you have no right to be judgmental,_ you want to snap back, but your lips twitch and you stay silent. You understand what it's all about now: cowardice. Life is so much easier when you can say and do whatever you think is right and yet pretend you're so much better than anyone else. Everyone thinks bravery is all about speaking the truth. Well maybe at least that's what he deserves. "I didn't want anyone, House."

"But you needed someone so you're telling me you didn't have a choice?"

You decide to look down in silence out of habit, because that's what you've always done ever since your ninth grade teacher told you there was no need to answer a rhetorical question. Instead you concentrate on your breathing, your obvious strengths and weaknesses. "Do you regret it?" He suddenly asks and instantly clarifies, "Not asking the one you liked I mean?"

Somehow, you wish there was some kind of dramatic gesture you could use to make your point more valid in is eyes and finish this discussion the way you want to end it, like it deserves to be, with a raise of some kind, one last poker chip thrown on the red table. The problem is that you can't down your drink (and again that's because of him) so you just hop off the stool with all the dignity you still have and remain standing there between the bar stools, staring in his pupils. You hope he sees the honesty behind yours and you decide that for once tonight you're tired of playing.

"Of course I do" you simply say and let your lips meet the corner of his mouth. Just like when you got out of his office a month ago, you realize that the problem with truth is that it doesn't end the game, either.

* * *

_A/N: _So, what do you think? Well, what are you waiting for? Tell me, click on the link underneath and leave a review! And by the way, next chapter will probably be published next week. The funny thing is that I know what K, L, M, N, O and P are going to be about but I still have no clue for J. That's why I need reviews, feed me with your ideas ;)


	10. Jeopardy

A/N: I was going to appologize. I was going to write a cute little one shot and appologize for the delay. Tell you I really struggled with this one but that it was finally ready. And then, obviously, yesterday happened (well more like this morning actually because of the jetlag). So yes, this is a post-Bombshells shot, raw, un-betaed (because I really think you've waited long enough for this) so any mistakes are mine. House might also be a little OOC. I hope not but if you get that feeling, that's also my fault. I have one warning for you though : if you're looking for something sweet and happy to cheer you up after last night's disappointment, this is not it.

Enjoy.

* * *

**Jeopardy**

_11:45 p.m._

It doesn't fit. It can't be real. It has to be one of those weird dreams, hallucinations - whatever they are - again. It doesn't work, doesn't match, doesn't – fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Her stuff is all over your place. Her shampoo near the bathtub, her tops in the bottom drawer of your cupboard, her food in your fridge. This just cannot be real. It's like – like having to be somewhere you don't want to be, some place that isn't yours and that doesn't belong to her either. Oh and screw the metaphor. You want to get away, bang the door, escape, forget.

You didn't think it would happen like this. You thought you'd fight back. You didn't think you'd beg. Didn't think, couldn't think, you'd let her go. Leave her alone, frozen into space. Just like that day when that moron shot you. Guys are dense, women say, guys are idiots. God why did you think you were different?

Seated on the floor with your back against the tub, you think. Think, think, think, think. You already knew what it felt like to be dumped, and that's why you wanted to avoid it. It always comes back to that. Your leg, the pills, Stacy should have let you die. You're not sure misery's better than nothing anymore.

At least you know the feeling. You shouldn't be scared, this, this is nothing worse than what it was a few months ago. You're just back to square one, not six feet under yet. And the Vicodin is a good help, it takes the edge off, it'll keep doing the work for the time being. Until you get back on your feet, show her you care.

You won't tell Wilson. He wouldn't be on your side anymore. You can't afford losing him. Maybe Cuddy will spit it out though, they do talk to each other. Damn. Then you'll avoid him. Yeah, that'll work.

Your team won't know. Your team can't know. Or they'll start questioning all your decisions, thinking you can't think straight because of the pills, as if that has ever kept you from diagnosing people. The one thing you can do, the one thing you were willing to sacrifice for her. Everything will be all right.

* * *

_2:04 a.m. _

You can't sleep. Can't sleep, can't sleep, can't sleep. The candies do nothing, the booze does nothing. Masturbating in front of cheap pornos does nothing, but you doubt it was ever really effective. You think about getting a hooker, or your former masseuse, but then you remember the promise you made to her, waiting for a month or two before having sex with anyone else. That's the least you could do to show her you care about her. And considering how drunk and stoned you are right now, you doubt you would even be able to get it up anyway.

* * *

_2:37 a.m._

Okay, you can't fuck, you can't sleep, your leg hurts, it's time to get out of bed and do something. The bottle of Jack Daniels accompanies you to the living room and your ass falls carelessly on the piano seat. Your fingers start hitting random keys; you're can't even play. Way to go House. Greg, whatever. You stumble to the couch, making your phone fall from the coffee table in the process, and that gives you an idea. A _terrific_ idea.

* * *

_2:42 a.m._

Fuck, she's not picking up. It rings, rings, rings, rings and every time you hear the answering machine, her voice playing against your ear, it hurts a little more inside. I love you, you tell her. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I need you, until the machine dies and there's no one left to speak to. You try her home phone but no one's there either. God, you shouldn't have drunk that much. Makes you do such crazy and childish and moronically stupid things.

You're going to try again. It'll work. At some point, she'll be tired of listening to her ringtone and she'll pick up. She has to. And if not, at least she'll have to listen to your drunken messages in the morning, just so she can delete them all. Yeah, that's a great plan.

* * *

_2:45 a.m._

The booze and the drugs are making you dizzy. You try to get up and get the hell out of here; she won't be able to ignore you for that long if you start banging on her door in the middle of the night. You stumble around your apartment, hit the shelves on the wall and a few books fall down; you scream in pain when one of them land on your thigh. You sit on the floor. She thinks there's no hope, Wilson thinks there's no hope, and maybe you're going to start feeling that way too.

* * *

You have no idea what time it is when you start calling again but finally, a female voice answers. Your heart misses a beat. "Cuddy," you breathe, try to get her to stay here, right there, in your ear, close to you. But soon you realize it's not her you're talking to. Goddamn family, goddamn Julia.

"She's finally gone to bed House," she tells you. "Could you just please, please stop calling?"

You sigh heavily into the receiver, you don't know what to say, you don't know what to think, you just – Fuck. "Julia wait don't hang up, how is she?"

There's a sigh on the other hand, a deliberative sigh. "You know her, don't you? How the hell do you think she is? She's lost control, she's lost you, she cried herself to sleep, please just go away, okay? Give her time."

Her thumb is probably frightening to end the call any moment and you scream, literally, beg her not to do that. If she goes then you're alone again and it'll just hurt so, so fucking much that you have no idea how you'll cope with it. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait Julia, don't!" You breathe in, breathe out, try to think of something clever to say for a minute, something Cuddy should know. "Tell her –" you trail off. You're so fucking sorry you're so screwed up, you're sorry you jeopardized everything, destroyed it even; it's so, so unfair to you, it's just –

"Good night House," a cold voice tells you and there's nothing, nothing you can do to make a difference.

* * *

I hope the ending is not too abrupt, I just couldn't write anymore after that. Now I have to go, head to class and work in that supposedly super cool new library that everyone has been so obsessed about lately here. Hahaha. Please review, it will make me feel a lot better after the Bombshells disaster. ;)

Oh and BTW, don't ever worry about me not finishing this. It may take some time but I will write the 26 letters. The delays you're experiencing are not due to a lack of ideas or to the writer's block but a desperate lack of time. I just wish a day was 36 hours long instead of 24.


	11. Knowledge

A/N: Hey, new chapter here, hope you'll like it. Thanks to Pandorama for beta-ing, please review and tell me if you liked it ;).

* * *

**Knowledge**

You always had a thing for dark brown eyes. There was something desirable and hot about them, something that made you think of exotic sceneries and reminded you of Italy and the Mediterranean Sea. The beach, the sand in your lover's ebony hair, you could never understand why but this was your deepest fantasy as a teenager.

Maybe the thought was a result of your own eye color. You understood what it was like to be the odd one out in a sea of darker shades. It was incredibly easy, the blue-eyed monster could get whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted it. You were gifted; you felt like you deserved nothing.

Maybe it was because of the danger brought by azure and cobalt. That's what you noticed when you met him: everything got riskier. Imagination running wild, people betting on what exact shade of blue your little girl's eyes would be if you'd picked House as 'the one you liked'. As cliché as it may sound, you were threatened by his stare, you became insecure. House studied people with his pupils, made them feel exposed and naked in the blink of an eye and you hated it. You hated how oblivious he was about it.

Tonight, standing alone outside his office, you are the one watching him intently as he barks at his team, when the time is critical and Charlotte Pitts is going to die. He writes hurriedly on the white board and they go on for while, just throwing ideas in the air, not even bothering to look outside. With the snow still falling, you'd better leave now if you don't want to be stuck here tonight.

Somehow, he turns around and notices you. There's no sign, no nod or any type of acknowledgment, it's just a deep ocean staring at your smile.

You assume he excuses himself (probably saying something along the lines of _'sorry, gotta go, the boss wants to give me my Christmas blow job'_), and two minutes later he's standing in front of you.

"You're going home?"

"Yeah. Can't leave Rachel with Marina on Christmas Eve."

"You're a Jew," he notes with that funny look on his face that you've never seen on anyone else.

"Yeah, but Marina isn't," you sigh. Some people actually spend Christmas with their loved ones.

A second passes, maybe two, he keeps looking at you. "What?" You say. There's something he wants to ask you, you can see it in his eyes. This tiny little detail that's eating at him, making him look down and shift uncomfortably and you wish he'd just spit it out and get it over with. You love him, you really do, but sometimes you feel as if he's a ten-year-old kid you've just caught stealing candy from a locked kitchen drawer. And you're not an idiot either; you hate the fact that he needs you so much in his life now that he's lost all the courage he used to have. On your first day back to work with him, you told him that this would only work if you both were brutally and painfully honest with each other. And yet, House's fear of sharing is still killing him.

"Do you want me to be there?"

"Where?"

"At home, tonight, with you. Wilson told me I should. It's Christmas."

"You've got a case House, I get it."

He frowns, then rises an eyebrow. "Are you lying?" he asks and keeps gazing at you intently. You decide to let your guard down in front of him, even for just a minute, because you can't help thinking that if you do, one day he'll actually trust you enough to return the favor. Telling each other what's wrong - talking it through - may be the only way this can work. You don't want to be one of these women who say it's 'fine' when it's not. You don't want to make this more difficult than it already is for him. He looks so damn confused. "Because Wilson said –"

"Wilson doesn't even know when Hanukah is," you laugh. "Seriously, House, don't worry, it's fine. Go save a life. Just please don't do anything too crazy until tomorrow morning okay?"

He shuts up, finally looks like he's giving in. He glances around the corridor, then inside the conference room, turns around, faces you. And then you see it, the spark in his eyes, the electricity of the light bulb that suddenly shines above his head. The epiphany. "Me … _crazy things_" he quotes to himself and trails off. "What did you say?"

You laugh, stepping in front of him and letting your hand graze his cheek. "Just go." You smile. "I love you."

"O-kay." Uncharacteristically, he smiles you an apology and nods. You give him a small tap on the shoulder and your hand travels down the length of his arm, quietly intertwining your fingers. Standing on the tips of your toes, you give him a quick peck on the lips and start turning to go. He doesn't let you.

It's your turn to study him, the man you love. That's it, you said it a while ago and there's no going back. Your heart will stop, your heart probably will freeze in the heat of the argument one day when he'll be glaring at you with a mix of disgust and lust on his face but right now, when you look into his mischievous blue eyes, you realize it doesn't matter. You _know_ it doesn't matter. You'll never get the dark-haired Italian on the beach, but you get him, and for some reason you think it's worth it. The other guy you could have settled for would probably minded the people going by, the team staring at you and your public displays of affection but House forces you to come back and pay attention.

The thing you'll never admit is that you're also terrified of screwing it up. Of screwing him up. You never told him but when he pushed Stacy away, you understood his fear. Always afraid that happiness would change what he does and what he is, now you're afraid you'll change him. You've noticed how uncharacteristically shy he's been around you lately. Diverting his gaze and second-guessing himself while still taking the 'safe' approach. You hope it'll pass, with all your heart, because this isn't something you want to be responsible for. You've already had a fair share of guilt to deal with in your life.

In front of the whole world, he rests his hands on your hips and pulls you against him, kisses you again, hard, open-mouthed, and it means something. To you, to him, and you desperately try not to care about anything else. If you can give him an epiphany, you may not be such a bad influence on his doctoring skills after all.


	12. Liars

_A/N:_ Hey, new chapter here! Hope you like it. Might be considered a little AU now with Dominika but for some reason, I have the feeling me ignoring her existence isn't something you guys are going to complain about. Thanks again to Pandorama for beta-ing and correcting the millions of commas I seem to forget all the time.

Also, this is for Saya (even if I doubt this fic and the twenty euros I gave to the red cross will change anything about those two never-ending minutes).

* * *

**Liars**

"Oh God..." she sighs, lying naked next to you on the mattress, sweat slowly drying on her skin. The window of your bedroom is slightly open, small puffs of a warm summer breeze coming in and out and even though it's already the end of August, it seems like this hot, sticky weather is never going to end. You leave a trail of sloppy kisses down the side of her face, following her jawline and end up with your mouth back on her smiling lips. The smile is fake; you know it, she's confused, conflicted, wondering if there's a way this can be the right thing to do. Honestly, there isn't one_. _

"James Bond can't do this to you, can he?" You ask and she turns a little, surprised.

"Who?"

Oh, she knows damn well who you're talking about, doesn't matter if you got the name wrong. James is the British boyfriend she keeps taking to hospital fundraisers and kissing passionately in the parking lot. She looks guilty, feels guilty, lies; again, you pretend not to care. "What? You thought I didn't know?"

Her eyes focus on the lost mosquito landed on your ceiling. "Guess it was stupid of me to think you'd stop looking through my stuff…"

_The great thing is that you don't even need to tell her now, she admits it herself._

"Look House," she says and shifts away from your body. No, no, no she can't just fuck you and escape like that again. You have to find something to make her stay.

"Apparently it was also stupid of you to think you couldn't live without the way I make you -"

She cuts you off instantly. "Oh, shut up."

You don't care. She just shouldn't be in denial like that. This is not good for her. Not that you care about her, 'not really', again, she even said it herself. "And maybe I faked it," she adds (just for effect probably).

"Oh no you didn't."

"Really?" She sighs, sits up, stands and goes to retrieve her skirt before you get to stop her one more time. "How do you know exactly?"

"Well, first of all, you wouldn't be cheating on Prince Charles if the sex was better with him than it is with me."

She stares at you, her eyes wide open. She tries to make it hurt, really. Her eyes are dark, her face is tense, she drives her body a little farther away from yours. "Maybe I pity you," she says and bites down on her lower lip. You let both your hands rest between your head and the pillow. If she could just stop lying like that for a second… "Right, because when you dumped me that was out of pity too."

And there you go, she bites, you kick. She sits back down on the bed, like she doesn't know where she belongs anymore. "Look, I'm not cheating on him and I'm not having an affair with you either, that's for sure."

"Oh yeah and what is it then? A _liaison?_"

"I never told him we were in a _exclusive_ relationship"

You laugh. You don't exactly know who she's lying to anymore: you, the MI: 5 agent – 6, whatever - or herself. "Right, because clearly he knows where you -"

"And _this_," she cuts you in the middle of your smart-ass comment and rises, points at you naked in bed, then at herself, out in the cold, searching for her clothes, "was a mistake. It can't – won't – happen again, House. Okay?"

"And _yet_, it's been three times already,"

"Moments of weakness."

You arch an eyebrow at her.

"Last time I was drunk," she justifies.

"When you came to me, yes. Much less when we did it again in the morning."

She's now got her shirt back on, and her hands on her hips in a desperate attempt to look serious. "Look, this is not good. For either of us."

"God, Cuddy," you start whining and slowly, she reaches under the bed, starts looking for what she's lost all over the room. Her pride maybe, you smirk. And yet for some reason, you decide to just be a bitter asshole with her. Because really, after all, it's all you can expect from someone who can't change.

"Oh now that's embarrassing. What if he notices you don't have your panties on when you come back? Wait, this is so funny. I can picture him in my head 'What the _bloody_ hell, _Lisa._'"

She comes back up from under the bed and stands in front of you biting on her lip again (that's always the best way for you to call her bluff). "Please House, don't do this," she mutters and begs you and you to try not to care. You don't _want _to care about hurting her. She deserves it. You've been holding on to this idea ever since she broke it off. You wanted to make her pay. It was the only thing you could do, blame her. Actually, it's still the only thing you _can _do. At another time, in another place, she wouldn't have fought back the tears in front of you; she would have opened up in your arms but now – fuck you said you couldn't care less, didn't you? You close your eyes, run a hand through your dirty hair. "Over there in the corner," you finally say and she crosses the room. Out of your sight, she slips on her underwear.

She sits next to you at the end of the bed, puts her head in her hands and decides she wants to hate you as much as she loves you. Sadly, however mean and hurtful what you say is, it doesn't seem to help. "Can I ask you something?" She asks, sighs if you prefer, and hopes you'll answer honestly. "Why is it a problem to you?"

"What?"

"You get free sex with me, no strings attached and yet what? You want us to stop? Want me to leave him? Start seeing you again? That's just not happening House. And you could actually say no. Send me home."

"It's never free sex and no strings attached between us, Cuddy."

_And judging by what's coming next, she's right, you should have sent her home and called a hooker. _

"Do you still love me?"

The hot weather gets to you, gets to your leg, dulls your brain. You think about her question. You think about your answer. Consider saying the truth. Chicken out. Deflect. "That's not relevant."

She smiles. "Right." She knows you.

A minute goes by, then two. She looks down at her feet, up the ceiling, gazes at the first drawer of your bedside table. "You're clean?" She asks and although you're not entirely sure if she actually wants an honest answer or not, you still give her one.

"On and off. No hallucination so far, why?"

She seems to consider this for a long moment but doesn't bother saying anything else. Her hand moves a little, for just a second she almost touches your leg, but she sighs and gets up again instead. She doesn't even try to make eye contact anymore, and you wonder if she's just annoyed or actually scared of what you could see in her pupils. You've handled situations like this before but with her it's different. You don't know why, maybe it's because of the lack of a ring on her finger. Maybe there's still hope.

Once she gets to your bedroom door she stops again and turns around. Her eyes find yours and for some reason, the great Friday afternoon sex you've just had is almost forgotten. Or at least it doesn't make you feel as good as it used to. "I'm going back to him, House. And I'm not coming back to you afterwards," she mutters and you pretend not to hear the tone in her voice. This broken, heartbreaking tone that is usually the only thing that can make you feel bad about something in your life. "Don't worry about me. I'll be out of your life for good," she lies.

Or at least, you hope she does.

* * *

So, did you like it? Hate it? Review, and don't tell me lies ;).


	13. Michigan

_A/N:_ I'm an idiot. Trust me, I know. I decided to live in a world in which House didn't crash into Cuddy's house and Lisa Edelstein didn't leave the show. Please come live with me. Anyway, three months later, this is it, fifteen pages of words that probably don't even fit together anymore. I'd like to thank anyone who's reviewed so far (and anyone who is going to do so), anyone who's still reading and of course my wonderful beta, Pandorama. You really have no idea what this would be without her help, I feel that the longer I learn the worse I get at English. Enough talking now anyway, here is your new letter.

* * *

**Michigan**

When you heard his voice calling your name over the crowd for the first time, it got lost in a mix of confusion and light chaos. You were working, you remember, and not in the library or in the research lab, like Wilson and everyone else at the hospital seems to think, but in a tiny, busy bar near campus. He never told anyone about it and you've always wondered why, wondered if maybe he knew it wasn't something you wanted to feed to the gossips of the hospital. At that time it was also something you had kept a secret from both your family and friends, afraid that anyone would come find you and ask for a favor or some free drinks you honestly couldn't afford. _Sure_, your parents paid for housing and tuition but you still needed the money for personal expenses like, well, caffeine, books, make-up, shoes, and as House pointed out later that night, tight dresses, low-cut tops and mini-skirts.

Ever since you had taken this job, you had started to feel like the well-known judge of an ice-skating competition, every living soul in the place trying to find new and creative twisted ways to attract your attention just to receive their orders sooner. So you had learned to purposely ignore them, deciding to organize, prioritize, compartmentalize, deal with one thing at a time (just like you always do). And of course, because this is the story of your life, when you heard House's voice shouting your name for the first time, you tuned it out, thinking it was another drunken student dying to get another beer. You made sure to fill the first order you had gotten, the drink in your hand almost ready. With a couple of mint leaves inside the glass, you reached for the bottle of rum, blinking slightly while running your hand through your hair.

And maybe if you hadn't, your whole life would have turned out differently_. _

"Hey, Cuddy! Lisa Cuddy!" His voice insisted and you turned your head in the opposite direction. "You do realize you're going to have to stop ignoring me at some point, right?"

Your gaze travelled across the room, the smoky air not really helping you to spot him You cursed under your breath and kept muttering to yourself that you hated this job until once again, you remembered how much you needed the money. Being behind the counter and serving drinks, as exhausting as it was, let you save at least twice as much than your friend Jenny, who worked at that café down the block. So until you graduated from med school and got a job that came with both the money and the satisfaction, you had had to settle for this. Bartending in a small crowded bar three nights a week.

You turned around again and finally found Greg House, leaning against the counter a few feet away from you, relaxed, a smug grin plastered on is face. You still believe this is the one and only time you've ever been genuinely happy to see him, with no mixed feelings, no twitch in your stomach, satisfied with the simple act of catching the look in his eyes. When you didn't actually know him. Before he opened his mouth, he was your own little fantasy.

With a mojito in your palm, you extended an arm and faked disinterest as the other guy standing by the bar started to ostensibly show impatience. You handed him his drink and he paid, cash, his plump fingers grazing yours for just a little bit longer than was appropriate. He took a few steps back before heading to his table (probably to let someone else have that glass; he didn't quite fit the usual profile of mojito drinkers) and you quickly took one last look at him before letting go. He was big, not only fat but also tall, his face looking like one of those maps you had studied in high school from before the continental drifts. Everything wasn't just where it was supposed to be.

"She's just into him for the free drinks," House declared, leaving you wondering for a short moment how stupid he thought you were not to notice the obvious.

"What do you want?" You sighed without even looking at him. You had heard this was how he worked, or at least how he wanted to work and how you had planned to interest him, Gregory House the campus legend. God, you were such an idiot.

_This is so fucked up_, you told yourself and before he could speak, a bunch of girls entered the bar, quickly starting to move towards you. He checked them out, _obviously_, and even now, you remember them being far too loud and brash for this place, especially the blonde one on the left. He motioned you to get closer and whispered, "I know you cheated off me."

"No," you lied; if only. If only you hadn't seen _him _cheating off you in endocrinology and, upset by the credit people seemed to give a blatant cheater, you hadn't exchanged your paper with his. He just had to notice you. You couldn't believe his arrogance. Copying your answers and correcting the ones you had gotten wrong. Fucking genius. "What do you want?"

"Sure you -" he started but another voice stopped him, high-pitched with a contemptuous tone that clearly would never compete with his. "Um… Sorry to interrupt your _fascinating_ conversation but we'd like to get something to drink, here." Blondie tapped her wrist and left you wondering if she had once been one of these poor kids who drew watches on their skin when their parents deemed them too young to have a real one. You both glared at her and as you sighed and started to move in their direction, House gripped your forearm. "Sure," he spat, "me too. Wait in line."

The girl gasped in indignation with her hand in front of her mouth. This was also the first time House almost got you fired.

"Answer me," He added not releasing his grip.

"Okay, I didn't cheat off you," you told him quickly, checking on Blondie every once in while, hoping she'd listen to her brown-haired friend and 'just get the hell out'. "_You_ copied my answers in Endocrinology and corrected the ones I got wrong._ I_ took advantage of that by switching our names on the papers. Now," you finally breathed, hoping the flow of words would somehow cover the sound of your pounding heart, "in case you haven't noticed, I'm a bit busy."

"Yeah right, play dumb."

Well actually, you had no idea what your plan was anymore, so that could have been a good position to adopt. Silently, you promised yourself not to do anything anymore without spending at least a few days mulling over the possible consequences. A vow you obviously didn't stick with, or else you could have avoided a lot of the mistakes you made in your life. 'A good girl never acts on impulse, honey,' your mother had said. You stole a glance to your right and saw the girls disappearing from your field of vision, your heart torn between staying with him and following them to apologize. Ever since you had met him in that bookstore, all you had wanted was to talk to him, to_ learn_ from him, to interest him. _And yes, _maybe you had wished for more than thateven though you probably would never have admitted it. Because your friends were right, he was a jackass, but a hot one. You shook your head. For some reason, you had never been the good girl your mother had hoped for. When you had seen him glancing down at your paper that day, you just couldn't pass up the opportunity. He had been right about you after all, the overly ambitious girl with a chip on her shoulder. Now that his blue eyes were staring right at you, you had no idea what to do. In all honesty, you might even have been a little disappointed, at how easy it had been to get him. You should have known that he was just like all of them.

"You know, I could get you expelled," he started and you weren't exactly sure if it was a question or just a random proclamation. Of course you had thought about that, you wouldn't have ruined everything for him, no matter how glad your sister would have been to see you going out of your way for a guy - _you're no better than any of us, Lisa_ - but the threat was empty.

So you laughed at him. "My word against yours, with all the stunts you pulled in the past months, who do you think they're going to believe?" You asked and didn't wait for an answer to come out of his mouth. "Let's just say we're even okay?" You added "You tried to screw me; I screwed you, end of story. Now please, I'm kind of busy."

_That would have discouraged any other guy, you thought, and hoped he cared more about his ego than his chromosomes._

You moved again, away from him, this time before he could catch you. "Right" he said, leaning on the counter, his arms dangling over the other side. He stared at you and you held his gaze, until you saw something - or he did - you're not sure. The only thing you remember is that the light was dark, the air foggy, the weather chilly outside and you thought you had missed it; the hot and sunny atmosphere. His irises reminded you of the last summer you had spent at home, the simple, blind happiness and anticipation. He studied you. Analyzed – no, scrutinized - you. Something happened. There was warmth in his eyes, a challenge, a heat that you think disappeared with the years and the bitterness he's always carried. Then someone shouted 'Lisa' and asked for a beer and you turned around before he called you back. "Hey Cuddy!"

_Again. _"Don't call me that, my name's Lisa," you said and asked, "What?"

"Going to that party tonight?"

"Not for me." You shrugged.

"Forgot your favorite party pants, huh?" He smirked and jumped off the stool. You rolled your eyes. "Let's just say you're invited."

You glared until he was gone and smiled. One more test you had passed.

* * *

You did debate whether or not to go. You want to point that out. But it was, in fact, a great and fun opportunity to see him outside of class. And maybe if you could interest him _that_ way, then –

You blinked.

There were a lot of people there, college students mostly, dancing, partying to an overplayed song that you could only recall abstractly, knowing the lyrics, the rhythm, without understanding their meaning. Not that you cared, really. You started to look around, unsure of what you were going to find and wondered how that weird, twisted plan of yours had caught his attention. Perhaps he wasn't really a jerk, just a guy as fucked up as you were.

Yeah, you abandoned that thought when you realized he had stood you up._ Of course_. You couldn't even be disappointed or surprised. Nothing good would have come out of this. Seriously, who had you been kidding? You quickly decided to go home before another guy stumbled past you and prevented you from going any further.

"Hey, beautiful, looking for someone?" He said, and silently, you noted that that had to be the worst pick-up line you had ever heard in your whole life. He looked drunk and you knew him a little - it felt like he was one of your friend's friends or something – but you have to admit at that time, you didn't care all that much.

"I was, actually."

He drew one of his most charming smiles on his face and added, "Well, if he left you all alone, he surely doesn't know what he's missing."

You smiled, not sure if you were just being polite or if his good mood was just that contagious. His hair was just a shade darker than yours, sticking at incredibly odd angles. Everything just happened so fast… He had light-brown eyes, was clean-shaven, with some of the most impressive biceps you had ever seen. You raised your eyes to his face and muttered "I…"

"Sorry but what's your name, again?" He kept smiling and your gaze wandered across the room one last time. You hesitated, didn't see _him_. You smiled back. "Lisa."

* * *

Dancing incredibly close to Michael – you had learned what his name was in between two drinks - you felt the bulge in his pants growing against your body and breathed heavily down his shoulder, grazing his cheek with yours. You knew damn well an attempt at making time for a real relationship should have been at least considered, but it always felt like you didn't have either the time or the energy to commit, and loved boys too much to give them up. So you closed your eyes and stayed close and waited until you were thirsty enough to ask him to go grab you a drink, in a hopeless attempt to forget about your conscience.

With him gone, you stood there alone for a while, trying to breathe out some of the excitement flowing through your blood. Your eyes still closed, someone grabbed your hand and dragged you towards a less crowded space near the backdoor, and you immediately thought it was your athlete again, finally deciding to skip dessert. But he was too tall and not muscular enough and you almost shrieked 'Help!' before you recognized House. You pouted, couldn't help but think it was all his fault, after all._ He_ forced you into Michael's arms for heaven's sake. Everyone knows girls tend to behave unlike themselves when they're mad. Upset. Humiliat–

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" You gripped his shirt and poked a finger at him. "You invited me here, left me alone and now what, you're kidnapping me?"

"Oh, sorry, did I bruise your ego?" He looked down and you saw his eyes _subtly_ undressing you. "This dress is much better than the pants I imagined by the way," he added, unrepentant.

You chose not to pay attention. "Hurt my ego? Are we role-playing now? Greg I-cannot-believe-you-cheated-on-me?"

"Stop shouting, you're being hysterical."

"So what?" You started, "I can - " but someone else started yelling louder before you could even deliberate on where this sentence was going.

"_Where the __**fuck**__ is she?"_

You heard the shout; then the sound of skin against skin and everything suddenly stopped. The music, the people talking, the animation. You thought it was a real shame that you couldn't just turn back to look inside the room because this surely sounded like the best entertainment you could ever have gotten that night. It sounded like a slapping noise; the kind that usually belonged to angry, humiliated girlfriends who weren't afraid of creating a scandal at a party. But House's tall frame was still blocking the way and out of nowhere, you heard something – or someone – crashing onto the floor, taking a few, hurried steps back and landing right in your line of vision, between House's shoulder and the doorframe.

_Michael, _of course_. _

_Yeah_, you just had to be that unlucky. Years later, when you had heard about how Wilson and House met, you couldn't help but think he had to be attracted to people in trouble as much as he liked to cause it. "Where the _fuck_ is _she _you cheating bastard?" She shouted once more, "Tell me, you liar! You were going to fuck her, weren't you?"

Naturally, House was staring at you with that _look _on his face. And frankly you would have started to look at yourself with that look, too, if you had been able to. There was, of course, a chance that Michael had decided to ignore his jealous girlfriend and hooked up with two different people in one night but you didn't really want to wander back inside the main room to test your luck. "Follow me," House muttered quietly in your ear.

"What?"

The girl finally moved and started going through the room, screaming insults at every drunken student she passed by (for a second, you silently wished for Blondie-the-bitch to be there). From your vantage point, you suddenly saw another guy approaching her. She jumped, stumbled back before he could calm her and reached to push him away the same way she had done with Michael. "Don't touch me!" She shouted, and House forced you to tear your gaze away for a moment.

"Or we could make out," he said, "whatever you want."

"What? Leave me alone, I'm going home."

"Alone? Oh so you do want her to kill you, don't you?"

This was going to be worse than a migraine, worse than what you could process with House and the poor girl and Michael. At one in morning and you had already had a little too much to drink and, "I…" you started but couldn't still voice any of your concerns.

"Where is _she_?" The rant started again, even louder this time, your head on the verge of exploding. Pissed off, hurt, the girlfriend quickly engaged in another round of Tourette's syndrome. Fuck, bitch, everything. "Okay fine," you told House with no real alternative, "let's go".

* * *

You escaped out the backdoor with House shadowing you close, the light April breeze a soft caress on your bare legs. He ran down the sidewalk, past the road, the grass and the trees, his hurried steps finally catching up with you before you were brought to a stop. Sure, you were going to destroy yourself, you thought, one bit at a time. 'She's so exceptional' they said, talented, smart, successful. Possibly scared, nervous and angry, too. The unbearable secret. It felt like your personal triumph had even shut your mother up for at least a second, and had had your father hug you with that look in his eyes he hadn't been able to abandon ever since you had gotten up on that stage in sixth grade. Danced, sang and nailed it. Ultimate pride.

You always nailed everything, anyway.

"So, who was he?"

You stopped abruptly and turned around, a cocky smile playing on your lips. His body almost crashed into yours. "The guy who was there when you weren't, I guess." Again, when you started walking away, he ran after you.

"Hey, don't run away! I saved your life, Princess!"

Your feet slowed down a bit. "Princess?"

"What, you liked _Party Pants_ better?" He wondered and at first it felt disconnected, surreal. Just like everything that had happened that night. "Leave me alone," you muttered.

"I can't, I saved you."

"No you didn't."

_At least if he hadn't forced you to hook up with another guy, he hadn't needed to_.

You still can't believe you were that stupid. And your good excuse was alcohol. Or the cigarette Michael gave that didn't really smell like tobacco. You hadn't smoked it yourself though, so that also looked like a pretty weak defense. Great Lisa, you thought, and wished you could just keep screwing up without minding the consequences. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do at nineteen years old? He took a step closer, suddenly towering over you. His hair was short, dark, his clothes already seriously in need of an iron. You never commented on it though, had always thought he would be the kind of guy to argue that it was better to have wrinkled shirts than obsess over cleaning like those people who even ironed their newspapers.

Walking again, you soon made it to the old stone-made stairs that students usually used as a shortcut to reach the upper buildings. He caught your arm before you could even try to climb a step.

"You were going to fuck that guy, weren't you, Cuddy?"

You struggled to catch your breath. Pondered over his question, it seemed like a legitimate one. And you had no idea what to say. You were more angry than anything else. What kind of guy would make out with a random girl at a party his girlfriend might attend? You paused. Rolled your eyes. You idiot. If this was Gregory House's definition of saving you, then lucky him. Grabbing your arm and dragging you out before she could kill you. Nicely played, a real knight in shining armor. "That is so _none_ of your business," you finally declared, deflecting.

"You _do_ realize your lack of answer tells me more than an actual answer, right?"

_Typical _House comeback, even though you didn't know it at the time. "Yeah? And how's that?" You spat.

"Oh, come on Cuddy, I know you want to say yes! Partly because it's true, sure, but also because you think that's what I want to hear."

"And why exactly would I believe that?"

"I know you asked around. And you heard stuff, rumors about me…"

God, that ego. At that time, you really thought you had figured him out, had found the key. Now, twenty years later, you still haven't even figured where the lock is. "Trust me, you're not that famous," you answered, hoping to turn the conversation to your advantage.

His grip had loosened on your arm and yet you could still feel his hand lingering there, sticking to your bare skin like cats can be glued to a sofa. He leaned into you doing that thing he kept doing for years afterwards, keeping his mouth inches away from yours. If there could be a game in which the goal was to put people ill at ease, House would win it in the blink of an eye. "Oh, so you're saying you would never have a one night stand?"

A cold rush of air passed through your lungs. God, you did_ not_ want to answer that.

You backed away a little, almost hopping on the first step of the stairs. He smiled at you. "You are _so _not getting away now."

"Oh, yes I am."

"Cuddy -" He started before you shut him up.

"Seriously, are you so smart it would be unworthy of you to engage into such familiarity as calling people by their first names?"

He laughed. "I like to think of myself that way, yes."

"Well I don't," you glared at him. "Good night _House."_

At that, you tried to turn away but he tightened his grip on your arm once again. 'Never believe you can fool Gregory House', you noted. Firmly, you spoke, "Get your hands off me."

"Make me."

That smile... That damn cocky smile. You silently wished you didn't like it. Slowly, you felt his thumb grazing your skin until it found that spot on the inside of your wrist and you quickly tore your forearm away before he could feel (and count) for sure the effect he had on your heartbeat. "Fine… you want to talk?" You asked, then sat down on the second step of stairs wondering if he knew your knees were just about to give out. "Well there," you snapped, "talk."

He glanced down, amused, and sat next to you. "So? I'm curious."

"About what?"

"Would you have fucked him tonight?" He asked seriously and you just choked on your embarrassment, finding it harder than ever to simply catch your breath.

"Oh, still on that huh?" You deflected, "I thought I had answered you before."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Why?"

His palms rose in direction of the sky and you think you almost heard him groaning. You quickly wondered if that was now going to be your new goal in life, annoy Gregory House. Clearly, you had underestimated his ability to annoy you. "_Because _the answer's yes, and we both know it. Yet you don't want to tell me. Which makes me think you were raised as a 'good' girl and– "

"Please don't pretend you know me, House."

Unfortunately, he apparently couldn't listen to anyone but himself.

"I _believe_ you still think what you were about to do was wrong, even though you were still going to go through with it."

"Okay," you sighed. Of course, this wasn't you facing the issue, like he would have wanted you to; you were just saying what he wanted to hear. But how could House, of all people, force you to confront your own demons. The one guy who's always ignored his.

His eyes grew wide, his mouth slightly gaping. "Okay, what?"

"Okay fine, you got me," you shrugged. "I would have slept with him. So what? I want to go to med school, I don't have time for a real relationship, I'm nineteen, House, not three. And again, it hasn't even been a week since you've discovered my existence," you reached behind your head and unclipped your hair, letting black curls fall over your shoulders. You let the hairclip fall on the ground and shook your head, never noticed that he took it. "I really don't see who gave you the right to suddenly turn into my mother."

"I had _no_ idea I had a vagina before…" He said, frowning, staring at you with a sympathetic smile on his face. "Oh _please_, don't pretend you're a slut, Cuddy, it just doesn't fit you."

"Doesn't _fit _me?"

"Look, tell me one thing, why are you so angry?"

"You're deflecting."

"Yeah." His blue gaze met yours. "And you're deflecting my deflection. Answer the question."

"Why?" You asked again, and held on to his stare. When he raised his voice, you were glad everyone seemed to have deserted the streets.

"God, why do people always want to know _why_?" He paused, "I just think you're angry at yourself."

"No, actually, I'm angry at you. You invited me to a party and you weren't there so I had to find other people to hang out with–"

"Another guy," he rectified and left you wondering whether or not this could be considered to be jealousy. Why would he be jealous?

"_And,_ because of that, now there's a lunatic running around campus thinking I wanted to steal her boyfriend. So of course I'm angry at- "

"Okay, okay, okay!" He shut you up dramatically. "What I was saying is, sure, you're a little angry at me but you're also_ really_ angry at yourself, because you couldn't get him."

Your head shook from left to right in disbelief. "Yeah, and now I'm going home _alone_, thanks to you."

"Oh, trust me, I know it's not about the sex."

"Yeah? And what is it about then?"

He took a deep breath as his hand finally left your arm and his finger pointed at you. He looked like a lost drunken guy not even capable of convincing himself. You had always wondered if alcohol wasn't the only way for adults to get the right to finally behave like children, dance crazily and finally end up telling the truth. "You," he uttered, "are someone who's always gotten what she wanted, and yet tonight, that failed, so you're pissed."

"Oh, so you're my psychiatrist now?"

"You have one?" You shook your head, rolled your eyes. "Interesting. _Anyway_, I think you shouldn't beat yourself up about it, he wasn't your type."

At last, your laughter filled the air and you saw his eyes smile as he watched you relax. "Oh yeah?" You teased, "And what's my type?"

"_Please_, Cuddy, you can pretend you don't have a type but at least admit that he was a moron," he said, sighing in disbelief.

This time, you forgot to complain about the way your name sounded on his lips.

"Well, if I only wanted to date smart guys, I would only see curly ginger hair and thick glasses all day."

"Okay but you _do_ know he's just here because he plays football, right?"

"You played lacrosse before," you shrugged, and soon realized this was more than just another wrong move of yours. The look of pride, victory on his face, was priceless.

"So you _did _ask about me!"

Fuck, you smiled. For a moment, you thought he was going to start jumping and yelling like he'd won the lottery but he just laughed at you, repeating that he '_knew_ it!'. "It doesn't mean you _know_ me, House, just means _I_ know you. And for your information, I don't even have a type."

He just smirked. "Sure you do."

You stared at him, daring, until he was forced to blink and ease the tension slightly. You bit your lip, your face suddenly very close to his. You could smell his breath on your nose, the scotch he had probably swallowed dry and the beers he shouldn't have drunk if only he cared a little about what he'd look like in twenty years. For some reason, that guy had you wrapped around his little finger. And if it had been anyone else, you know you'd have left hours ago. You exhaled softly, the air tickling his nose and just kept sitting there, observing the slight dilatation of his pupils. Your only consolation seemed to be the effect you also had on him.

"Dance with me," he said, the smile on his face playing with your heart.

"What?"

"Dance with me," he repeated as if it was the most logical thing he could ever have thought of.

"Wait, where did _that_ come from?" You asked, "How the hell is that supposed to prove anything?"

"It isn't."

Your eyebrows rose quickly in wonder. "Then wh–"

"You danced with him so I know you can dance. Dance with me now."

You leaned in closer, running your tongue over your bottom lip. "Jealous, huh?" You muttered in his ear then added, "We don't have music."

Without warning, he abruptly jumped up and extended his hand towards you. "Come here," he said. You wondered how old he was, twenty-four, twenty-five maybe, and yet he looked younger tonight, younger than you. A teenager asking you out for prom, grinning with spontaneous cheerfulness, warmth, amusement. You rolled your eyes but made contact, your fingers soon finding his palm. He helped you up, brought your body towards him and his hands around your waist, his skin brushing against the thin cotton fabric of your dress. Your head found his chest and it just _fit._ Like that, out of nowhere, with no warning. Suddenly, you couldn't help but wonder if he could hear it - or at least _feel_ it - your heart beating way too fast for a woman your age.

He started moving and you caught yourself following him, the music he hummed and the simple sound of the night. A small, rational part of you told yourself this was ridiculous, stupid, meaningless. It was two or three a.m., there was no one around and you were dancing with House – the guy you had only met once in a bookstore months ago – and no music. God, he must have had the worst reputation of the whole school and yet, you couldn't really seem to care. Not because you were in love, or drunk, or sleep-deprived but because in that moment, you thought he might also have asked about you. And girls, in general, didn't like you. You just _knew_ that. For an important number of reasons that you would never have dared to voice aloud, in fear of appearing to be a twisted narcissist. The grades, the looks. That ability you had to always get what you wanted. And yet, after all that, he was still there. And so were you. And you, you _felt_ something. And not only annoyance or disgust. But not even lust either. You knew lust and _this_, wasn't it. Attraction, maybe. Attraction to him. Like magnets. Like gravity forces a withered leaf down to the ground. The warmth of his body felt - tasted - like freedom. And suddenly you recognized the hum, a low tone version of the song that lulled your teenage years.

"'Girls Just Want To Have Fun?' _Really_?" You teased.

"It's the only pop song I know," He whispered against your ear. You chuckled lightly in the night. "Oh, shut up," he said and made you laugh even harder. He smirked and looked straight at you, slowly ending the dance. For an instant, he was a perfect, romantic, lovesick cliché and you just hated it, hated him for it, because of all those years you had spent fighting against your mother and all the women you knew, and their conventional politically correct ideas or what your life as a woman should be. His hands lingered on your hips for only a couple of seconds and suddenly you just had to resist the urge to kiss him. For being such a cliché and yet so unlike everyone you had ever met. Hot and cold; yes and no. He was a jackass, a genius, had insulted you, told you he knew you and – you could just have just kissed him, on the lips as a simple thank you letter. No lust, no hurry, no nothing. Something you hadn't done in ages. Your hands touched and he looked down at them before letting his gaze settle on yours again.

"Want me to walk you home?"

"I don't need a babysitter."

"I know. You're nineteen, not three," he added, forcing a quiet laugh but of your mouth.

You bit down on your lower lip. Wondered. And asked.

"You don't only want to walk me home, do you?"

"Do you want me to?"

To what? You wondered and postponed a decision you didn't want to make.

"Okay, let's go."

* * *

You walked quickly with him by your side, because of the cold, the night, and also, maybe, because of the knot in your stomach. You had never been this nervous before, except maybe for that one time when you were fifteen. Even then, it hadn't been the same. Not really. When you reached your door, you were lost again, heart left pounding in your chest, addicted to his scent, and the danger, and a huge number of things that you couldn't quite name yet. But amongst those things, you could feel it now, _was_ lust. A real, needy, biological urge to throw yourself at him. And yet, the fear of ruining it.

"This is it," you simply said and waited for him to talk.

"Yeah I guess it is," he paused. "Except if you've stopped in front of someone else's room and want to break in, in which case I might start trying to find a phone to call security."

You laughed and hit him playfully, out of instinct, because you've always been like this, spontaneous, natural, and those years spent hiding it from others never really changed anything, even today. You know – hope – House knows that. However, you really hadn't thought it would bring in that much tension between you and him. That much electricity. You shrugged quickly trying to suppress a shiver running up your spine.

"I think this is the part where you're supposed to ask if I want to come in." He said and you weren't exactly shocked – you couldn't be – but as weird as it may sound, you were a bit disappointed. You did crave the feeling of his skin against yours, sure, but a small voice at the back of your mind couldn't prevent itself from saying that perhaps, he really was like all the others, easy. You had wanted him since the very beginning; now you had him.

"I don't like you anymore. You left me alone at a party. Why would I be nice to you, again?" You asked, teased, smiled, whatever; you weren't really sure.

He responded by taking a step into your personal space once more, towering you.

"Because," he breathed on your lips, his thumb slowly starting to run against your face, delicately grazing the thin bit of skin between your cheek and your eye. "I know for sure," he smiled, "from the way your pupils are dilated," and this time, it was your turn to inhale deeply, your chest almost touching his, wondering about the use of even trying to prove him wrong. "Your heart," he leaned into your neck and let the heated air escaping his mouth tickle your shoulder, his right hand then travelling towards the left side of your chest, "pounding, and your skin," he finished by tracing the low neckline of your shirt "flushed, you're not even going to last two minutes before you start taking my clothes off."

"Really," you breathed, "You think that?"

"I don't think, I know," he said, never letting his gaze leave you.

"This is a very bad idea," you sighed, or maybe spoke to yourself, closing your eyes. If only he could just look away for one second. Let you regain some sort of control over your body…

"No worse than sleeping with a stranger you met at a party, Cuddy,"

Your name rolled off his tongue in just _that_ way that made you not want him to ever call you anything else. "Yeah, at least we met in class," you muttered sarcastically.

He smiled. "Still sixty seconds left, Cuddy, the clock is ticking,"

Boldness, feelings and his snake charming skills finally got the better of you. Foreplay it was, then. "I don't know, what do you do you have to offer?"

"What do I have to _offer_?" He stressed and took a small step back, letting you take a closer look at him. You_ finally_ let out the breath you'd been holding and let your shoulders slide down a little, finding support against the wall behind you. "Everything you've ever wanted," he said, and looked serious.

You chuckled slightly and wondered if he had also heard that sometimes, laughing could help diffuse the tension. "And here I thought you pretended to be a jerk just to avoid the clichés –"

"I'm serious," he interrupted, "I know you."

"No you don't," you smiled._ Again_. Maybe, today, he stillthinks he knows you even though you still swear he doesn't. "Trust me," you whispered in his ear, "I don't need you to get what I want."

Suddenly, he stepped into your personal space once again, this time forcing the back of your hands against the wall, cornering you between the bricks behind you, his tall frame and his strong arms. You realized his body just… _felt_ a lot better than Michael, no matter what they always said about football players. He pushed a little harder, the small imperfections on the wall scraping your naked legs but you didn't – couldn't – give a damn. He was so close, so very much _there,_ that if he talked, you knew you would be able to feel his lips brushing – just brushing, not kissing – against your own.

You smiled and struggled a little to get your right hand away from his grip. His body still close to yours, you brought a hand to your chest, the strap of your dress accidentally sliding over your shoulder. He looked startled, hypnotized at first and you took that to your advantage by quickly reaching down the side of your breast, extracting the one, lonely key you had hid in there a few hours ago, not wanting to carry a bag all night. You put it in your mouth, slowly, painfully, before pulling the strap back up with your thumb. You'd be lying if you said you didn't notice the effect this simple gesture had on him and of course, you exaggerated it. He released his grip on your left hand and you took the key, lowered yourself until you could pass under his right arm and escape out of your tiny corner. You slid the key inside the lock, pushed a little and opened the door carefully. You took a single step inside the room, turning your back to him, the still dark inside. Really, you had never been happier about your roommate not sleeping here often. Again, he grabbed your wrist before you could go any further.

"You're going to have to stop doing that," you said, "or I'm going to have bruise."

At this, he grinned and released the pressure on your arm. With his blue stare still on you, you bit down your lower lip, breathed and uttered in his ear, "_Come in_."

You took his hand and pulled him towards you but he stopped halfway through the door. "Wait," he said and took your face in his hands.

"What?"

"This," he muttered and followed the cliché, kissed you, let your fingers run through his hair and suddenly, it was just _that _perfect.

* * *

The following morning you woke up alone and you weren't surprised, or hurt, or even disappointed. There had been no expectations – or at least that was what you had thought for a very, very long time. You read the note he left on your bedside table saying 'I think I have a type too' and giggled slightly, just enough for you not to forget him. But all you remembered, really, was that Gregory House had made you laugh, and smile, and love him, at least for one night.


	14. Nice

**A/N:** Two words, "just read!" Apologies and useless babbling at the end for those who are interested.

* * *

**Nice**

At seven-thirty, the sun finally sets on the city to the sound of waves rushing through the pebbles on the beach. You watch them from your hotel bedroom as they hit the bay endlessly, their regular pattern only feeding your own boredom. Out of habit, you reach down to touch your thigh, feeling the scar under the fabric of your jeans. There's something about this place that makes it hurt just a little less.

You woke up a while ago, at around five in the afternoon, jetlagged, deciding on impulse to go get lunch with someone who wasn't there. Already listening to a stupid speech, you guessed. Your eyes scan the scenery for a moment and your arms rest against the railing. You think about her.

You think the both of you could get used to this. Not only to the time zone but the peaceful atmosphere, the language perhaps, the local customs, the girls walking by the beach in tight shorts and high heels and the croissants for breakfast. The useless international conventions they host. You think it should feel a lot worse being here because this is work - and not the vacation you promised her to the Mont Saint-Michel - but somehow this is you, and her, alone, for once. And you wish you could have more than a four-day trip to the other end of the world.

When you exit the hotel and start limping onto the sidewalk, you briefly wonder if these people even know what fall is. It's already mid-September and the weather is still unexpectedly nice, warm but not suffocating, your arms enjoying the feeling of the light breeze against your shirt. There's a huge road in front of you, trapped between the city and the Mediterranean Sea, and the hotel she booked faces your back. You eye the crosswalk in front of you, the lights, the five lanes of what seems like the busiest street around, palm trees and pink flowers awkwardly planted on the median strip. You guess building this promenade along the beach must have seemed like a good idea in the 1920s, when traffic was limited to three cars and five horses playing who's-the-fastest but now, just like in every other European city, you realize the wrapping paper was too tight for the world to fit in.

The light turns green and you limp past the cars as fast as you can, quickly reaching the other side. There's a sidewalk again, with cycle lanes, a dike and finally someone with wet, brown, curly hair in the water. A smile of satisfaction plays across your lips and you go down the stairs, eventually walking the distance that separates you from the bag she left on the beach. You pretend not to notice the strange looks you get from a group of teenagers sitting about twenty yards away, lower yourself to the ground next to Cuddy's organized mess and go through her purse to retrieve her phone, absentmindedly looking at her BlackBerry while you watch her noticing you. She smiles and you nod once, waiting for her to come back.

It doesn't take that long.

"Didn't I tell you to leave my stuff alone?" she questions as she gets out, the yellow and pink lights in the sky casting lovely shadows over her body. You still can't believe she almost paid a hundred euros for a bikini that covers so little and think that since it seems to be the rule here, she might as well take the top off. "Sleep well?" she adds and her hair cascades carelessly over her shoulder leaving you not knowing how to react, mesmerized by the sight in front of you. "Could you pass me the towel?"

Droplets keep sliding down her firm frame and your eyes try to follow every single one of them down the curve of her neck, her breasts, the soft line leading to her bellybutton. _Why want to end the show?_ You wonder and shake your head, "Now, remind me why would I do that exactly?"

She smiles and reaches down slowly to grab it herself, making sure you still get a great view of her ass. God, you love her.

"So," she starts, before sitting down next to you, "when did you wake up?"

"Couple of hours ago."

"You know you can't keep doing that and stay up all night afterwards, right?"

"Now, that's funny 'cause I don't recall hearing you complaining about that last night… Do you think I should get myself tested for Alzheimer's, it could be pretty –"

She glares at you, cuts you off. "House," she says, her tone faking irritation.

You mimic her tone, smirking. "Cuddy,"

She just keeps looking at you. "I'd like to visit the city a little, you know?"

"I never told you not to."

"I'd like to visit _with you_. We're not going to be back anytime soon."

"I thought you had already been here anyway," you say, suddenly confused. You had thought that was the reason why she wanted to go to the Mont Saint-Michel in the first place. She never accepted your invitation, so it's not really your fault, always finding terribly lame excuses to delay your trip. And yet, when this conference turned up, she instantly asked you to come. 'It's the South, the Riviera,' she had said, 'you know? It's not Paris but it's not during summer either, so it should be calm, nice.' And by that time, well, you had already lost track of her argumentation and just said yes – or more like breathed it – because she was using other means to convince you, which seemed to be much more effective. Apparently, she didn't only want to visit the southof _France_.

You shake your head at the memory, swallowing hard and tearing your eyes away from her. You feel a couple of droplets hit you when her towel makes contact with her hair. "Well, yeah, but that was a long time ago with my college boyfriend and we didn't get to see the outdoors much anyway," she smiles, sitting down next to you, letting you play with the back strap of her bikini. For now.

"Bringing your exes in our relationship already? Don't you think that's a little too much, Cuddy?"

"Yeah well," she sighs, turning her face away from you before she can second-guess what she's about to say, "_first_, it was after you and I doubt you could ever feel threatened by Chris Foster."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, the shock comes in and you realize what it feels like to be hit by a giant airplane. "What?" you choke and try to suppress a laugh that still reaches your face too fast. "You _dated_ Chris Foster?"

She turns around to face the water, her eyes suddenly focusing on something you can't see. "This is really beauti–"

Your body shakes heavily now, and you're not even bothering to hide your chuckle anymore. When she sees this, Cuddy hits your arm with her palm and your back lands hard on the beach as you keep laughing at the pout on her face. "You_ dated _–"

"God, please shut up. He was nice and –"

"Nice? But he had that thing on–"

"House, shut up," she starts and crosses her arms over her chest, "You're giggling like a ten year old girl."

She'd never tell you how much she likes it though, how nice and warm it makes her feel inside to hear that kind of melody coming out of your mouth and how much she'd like to see more of this side of you (even if it's to hear you make fun of her), the complexity of your relationship and the joy you give her leaving her wondering what it would be like to stay here - on a beach in the middle of nowhere - forever.

"Yeah, well you dat–" you trail off this time, as rational thoughts make their way back in your brain. "Wait. You came _here _and didn't get time to visit with _Chris Foster?_"

"Well, let me tell you that contrary to popular belief he was good in certain… _ways_ that -"

"Better than me?"

Her eyes close for a short second and she bursts out in a loud laugh, her mouth wide open as she looks down and up again. You feel a bit confused, frown, until she finally says, "Of course not," and shifts towards you. She sits next to you and you'd like her to go further and actually climb on top as you lay on the ground, your hands behind your head. "But he was good enough," she adds. "And he was rich; he took me on a trip to France. Who was I to complain?"

You lift your head up and set your right hand free, reaching for the hem of her bikini bottom. Your long fingers dance against her skin, still feeling the water dripping off the fabric. Her smile changes and she bits down her lower lip, subtly getting closer to you. "Cuddy," you utter as your thumb wanders down her thigh, "I would never have thought you could take advantage of someone like that."

Her eyes now completely focused on you, her face getting slightly closer to yours, she lets out small puffs of air that graze your lips. "Yeah well, maybe we could head back to the hotel and I can show you how I can take advantage of you too…"

"Yeah…" You start, your eyebrows rising in agreement. Your eyes inspect her body silently, still unable to spot any imperfection. You know her by heart but still rediscover every taste and touch every night. In seconds, you know it'll be all about fingers and skin and gasps and – "Or we could just…" You add and don't give her enough time to react. In milliseconds you're on top of her, your weight pinning her down on the beach. She smiles again, tries pushing you away gently.

"I'm not having sex with you here, House,"

"Oh really?" With your hand on each side of her petite frame, you lower your face to her mouth and kiss her, almost forcing your way past her lips, leaving nothing to imagination. When she moans against your tongue, you think you have her and head down, leaving a trail of wet kisses down her chin and sucking lightly on her throbbing carotid.

"House," she whispers, begs, pleads – okay that may be a bit too much but you're sure there's a general idea to it – "House, stop," she tries, her breathing ragged. "House," she turns her head away in a hopeless attempt to resist, "there are_ people _over there."

You shift a little, glance to your right, and see the same group of teenagers you saw earlier, drinking beers a few yards away. You sigh against her ear, "They're not paying attention."

She just glares at you. And you keep kissing her. She lets you.

"Oh, come on Cuddy, this is France, not the Vatican!" You tell her collarbone. "These people must be _so _used to this."

She tries pushing you off of her but you're not always stupid enough to let her have whatever the hell she wants because she _needs _this as much as you do. However, when your mouth finds her left breast, you're disturbed by a loud noise, laughter, and the sounds of people rising on the other side of the beach. Beer bottles clink together and you see the five kids pack up their things and start walking in your general direction, then towards the stairs you took minutes ago from the sidewalk. You and Cuddy both stare, an ashamed look on her face and a smiling one on yours. You both shut up, holding your breath gasps and whispers and trying to hide in the dark. As the two last girls pass by, you hear the brunette tell her friend, _"Putain, viens on se casse ils vont finir par me faire gerber,"_ You start laughing uncontrollably against Cuddy's soft skin.

"What did she say?" She asks once, twice, her voice becoming more and more insistent. You kiss her again, and again, and again and begin untying her bikini straps before she can even start complaining. There's no one anywhere near you anymore, and it's dark, silent, and she moans softly in your hair when your tongue flicks over her nipple. This is nice, you think, and pleasant, and who cares if you drove those teenagers away, your PDA making them want to throw up? Certainly not you.

* * *

**A/N:** There you go, letter 'N', _Nice_. Hope the cuteness made up for at least 15% of the wait; I'm guessing the rest definitely got lost somewhere in the last three months. I really enjoyed writing this though, Nice is home for me, the place I grew up in, and having House and Cuddy there was truly wonderful. I'd also like to thank my wonderful beta, Pandorama for the help she provided on this piece. However, I am now searching for a new beta, so if you're interested, please PM me. The next chapter, 'Objection' should be up in about a week. Thanks for reading ;).


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